


winter wonderland

by vtforpedro



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Assassins & Hitmen, Chance Meetings, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Murder, Not Canon Compliant, POV Numbers, Partners in Crime, Some Humor, numbers-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29795067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtforpedro/pseuds/vtforpedro
Summary: “You know, people talk about fates colliding and all that, which has always been bullshit to me, but who the fuck expects to find a partner in Bemidji, Minnesota?”In which Numbers may not call it fate but he thinks it has to mean something.
Relationships: Mr. Numbers/Mr. Wrench (Fargo)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	winter wonderland

Numbers doesn’t believe in fate, destiny or chance.  
  
He doesn’t believe that some things are just meant to be. Fates colliding, destinies intertwining, or, heaven forbid, God’s will. An odd coincidence here and there and being in the right place at the right time, sure, but not that there is anything in this world that’s ever up to a higher power’s influence.  
  
Sometimes he gets lucky in his line of work but only in the way that things happen without it being a clusterfuck. That things go the way they were planned because Numbers believes in people, in humanity’s ability to fuck everything up, and is always pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t happen.  
  
But in his work, even coincidences tend to be a piece of a puzzle to put together, a puzzle created by _people._  
  
Numbers once had a man in the trunk of his car who told him that he was walking the path of the Devil, and if he murdered him, Numbers would be dooming himself to an eternity in Hell. Numbers told him that hell was on earth and a lifetime was an eternity already, but poor choices led to dire consequences and they’d finally caught up to him.  
  
He’d put a bullet in that man’s head ten minutes later and left him for the vultures.  
  
Hell is on earth, demons live in the people that roam its lands, and once you realize that everything is made up, everything is bullshit fed to people to exact control on society, that everything is only _one big theory,_ it’s easy to think of it all as a joke.  
  
Numbers realized that when he was a kid. Everything is just a joke and if you’re not in on the laugh, you’re not living up to your potential. Peeking behind the curtain and understanding the joke opens up a lot of opportunities in life.  
  
When you just don’t give a fuck anymore, you can reach out and take what you want. Make your own luck, pave your own paths, and make a mark on the world in your own way.  
  
He learned his way when he was fifteen. It was behind the trigger of a gun, standing opposite of the man that tried to enforce his way on Numbers, the man that had blood on his hands from the girl he plunged a steak knife into, and Numbers decided that he wasn’t going to let anyone lead his life anymore.  
  
It was all a joke and he was in on the laugh when he’d held his sister’s hand and watched her die.  
  
Numbers was good at cleaning up messes even then and once he’d cleaned up that one, he decided he liked doing it.  
  
So he may take assignments and technically works for Fargo, but they only tell him where to go, who to look for, and hand him a pile of cash when he gets back. Everything in between is up to him and Numbers likes it that way.  
  
Partners come and go like the seasons change. Too cold, too hot, too unpredictable, too rash, and eventually too dead.  
  
He’s in between right now and Numbers likes it that way better, but there are benefits to a good partner - a higher chance of staying alive being a big one - and he’s waiting on Fargo to send him another. He would hope for a good one, but Numbers doesn’t hope for anything anymore.  
  
Except for maybe good weather and getting the fuck out of small towns in Minnesota as soon as humanly possible.  
  
Bemijdi fucking Minnesota.  
  
Numbers only meant to pass through. He’d been driving all night and it was ten in the morning when he saw the town and decided eating something might be a good idea. Probably his worst idea, in the end, because now he’s stuck in this horrible little place with these horribly nosy but suspicious small-town Minnesotans.  
  
And he hadn’t even gotten to eat lunch.  
  
There was a Burger King, which would have done fine so he didn’t have to get out of his car, and Numbers managed to hit the most terribly placed nail on his way through the parking lot. Not just a small nail either, but one large enough to not only flatten his tire in a short time but also tear a gap in it.  
  
Which would have been fine. Numbers would be annoyed, but changing tires just comes with a lot of long-distance driving. It would have cost him a little time and maybe his fingers considering it’s mid-January, but Numbers would have gotten lunch and been on his way.  
  
But this happened two days ago too, on the highway, and Numbers has already used his spare tire. He would have gotten them all changed out in Fargo, as per usual, but this Saturday morning simply said _fuck you_ and now Numbers is stuck in Bemidji.  
  
Not only did he have to deign to ask for help from the sixteen-year-old behind the counter in Burger King, but he had to get a tow precisely two miles down the street to Discount Tire.  
  
And, somehow, in this small town in the middle of nowhere, Minnesota, Discount Tire on Saturday is the place to be.  
  
They don’t consider his need to be an emergency and _everyone else bothered to make an appointment_ like he meant to run over the behemoth of a nail and ruin his day. The offer of extra cash had been shot down like it was offensive and now Numbers sits in a hard plastic chair in the middle of a Discount Tire, watching the manager behind the counter and imagining colorful deaths for him.  
  
_It could be three hours or six, sir, we just don’t know._  
  
Numbers thinks if he keeps staring at the manager, they’ll know fairly quickly how long it’ll be.  
  
But it’s been nearly two hours already and Numbers is tired, hungry, annoyed, cold, and snow is starting to fall outside. The idea that he might be trapped here for the day and night has occurred to him and if he stares at the manager as he moves around behind the counter and out into the bays just long enough, he may avoid it.  
  
Numerous other people are waiting inside, chatting away like they haven’t seen each other since last Sunday, and what a week, huh? Oh, they expect it to come down even worse on this Wednesday. Better make sure there’s nothing important going on, huh?  
  
He has learned about the state of the local church and the audacity of some people to remodel a grocery store about a dozen times in the last hour and forty-five minutes and if Numbers doesn’t simply blackout in a rage, he’ll surprise himself.  
  
This is all in between the varying levels of suspicious looks he’s getting - highly suspicious to even more highly suspicious, it seems - and the mutters about _city slickers_ they think he can’t hear.  
  
Numbers didn’t know anyone said city slickers anymore, but Bemidji does seem to be a few decades behind. The Burger King had been proof enough of that because he was fairly sure he stepped into 1982 when he walked inside. But small towns with small-minded people tend to not like change, adapting poorly to just about everything new, and Numbers wishes he wasn’t so familiar with it.  
  
But he’s been working for Fargo for a long time now and small towns are places he frequents so often they’ve all started running together.  
  
He stares at the manager as he walks back into the store and behind the counter, glancing furtively at Numbers - still staring, yes - before he turns to talk to one of the guys who work in the bays.  
  
Speaking of being stuck a few decades behind.  
  
Numbers can’t remember the last time he saw mutton chops, not even in these small towns. The cowboy boots can’t possibly be comfortable to work in changing tires and whatever else it is they do at Discount Tire.  
  
“Now, I told you already,” Jim, the manager, says, holding up his hands irritably, “this is your responsibility. I pay you to lead out there, don’t I? If you don’t want to lead, then why the heck am I paying you to?”  
  
Numbers watches the man with the mutton chops, about two heads taller and broader than Jim, scowl at his boss. It’s a nice scowl, clearly worked on over the years, and Numbers would be rightfully intimidated by him if he were in Jim’s shoes.  
  
But then Mutton Chops lifts his hands and moves them so fluidly, so beautifully, that Numbers nearly forgets himself. It makes his stomach tighten and his heart skip a beat, his own hands breaking out into a cold sweat, just to see it.  
  
It’s the same reaction he gets every time he sees American Sign Language. It’s rare these days to come across anyone using it, every few years at best, but it unnerves him each time. He’s never told Fargo he is fluent because that’s likely to never be a necessary skill, and any time Numbers sees someone struggling due to the language barrier, he carries on because it’s not his problem to help even if he can.  
  
Numbers’ sister Lizzie was born deaf, a few years older than him, and he’d grown up learning the language and signing with her for hours every day. All the way until he was fifteen years old and their father ended her life and some part of his too.  
  
He shakes the memory away like a bothersome fly and sees Jim scowl back at the other man.  
  
“Now I know you’re just giving me lip,” he says, “and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. I’ve kept you on for a long time, Wes, and we’ve had this conversation… well, too dang many times to count!”  
  
Wes, apparently, scowls all the more at Jim and when he signs, Numbers catches it this time.  
  
_Start hiring competent people and we’ll stop having the conversation, you little weasel._  
  
Numbers smirks a bit and can guess pretty easily the type of person Wes might be. From looks and few words alone.  
  
“Sorry, I didn’t catch most of that,” Jim says in typical midwesterner fashion, with passive-aggressive politeness. “We can talk about this later, now, alright? We’ve got customers all over and more are coming every minute.” Jim gestures around the store at various places people are sitting. “Some even without appointments! So I need you working and not yapping at me, do you understand?”  
  
Wes is apparently aware of the power of persuasion via staring. But so is Jim because he doesn’t give in, and Numbers is fairly sure everyone is hanging on the edge of their seat to see if he does.  
  
“They’re just kids, you know, they have to learn somewhere!” Jim finally says, throwing his arms in the air. “You did too, once upon a time! Oh, don’t tell me you were born with a wrench in your name again…”  
  
Wes is signing exactly that but it’s laden with such immense sarcasm that Numbers smiles.  
  
“I have to help these fine people,” Jim says and gestures at an elderly couple walking up to the counter. “Finish this report and get back to work, will you?”  
  
Wes looks like he may want to stick his cowboy boot up Jim’s ass and stares at him as he walks behind the counter and grabs a piece of paper and pencil loudly enough that Jim and the elderly couple jump.  
  
“Oh, young men and their hot blood,” Jim is mumbling as Numbers watches Wes.  
  
He’s scribbling angrily on the report but when he looks up, he looks at Numbers. Numbers looks back because it’s not often that interesting things happen in small towns and he considers Wes an interesting thing.  
  
Wes looks like he might have a mean right hook and is thinking about showing Numbers how mean if he keeps staring, but Numbers only smiles again.  
  
It’s an odd feeling, the urge to move his hands in a way he hasn’t in such a long time, but Numbers finds that while he’s looking at Wes, it’s not so difficult.  
  
_Use a hammer and pop goes the weasel._  
  
Wes stares at Numbers and there’s barely a flicker of anything on his face beyond the stony intimidation, but he can’t quite mask the gleam in his eyes. He looks at Jim, then Numbers again.  
  
_You’re the one without an appointment._ _  
_ _  
_ _A crime worthy enough of a guillotine in Bemidji._ _  
_ _  
_ _It’s because you’re from out of town._ _  
_ _  
_ _I’m aware. Us North Dakotans better watch our step._  
  
Wes looks down at the report and Numbers gets the impression he’s trying not to smile. When he looks at Numbers again, there’s something softer about him all around, and he gestures broadly before signing.  
  
_Everyone’s watching._ _  
_ _  
_ _I’m aware of that too. The television is on C-SPAN so I don’t blame them._  
  
Wes does smirk then and Numbers finds it to be a very good look on him.  
  
_I’ve been the only one for ten years now._ _  
_ _  
_ _Why?_ _  
_ _  
_ _Mom died._  
  
Numbers is very aware that everyone in the store is looking between them as they sign like they’re from an entirely different planet communicating in an alien language.  
  
Small towns and small-minded people.  
  
_Have you been working for Jim the Weasel for that long?_  
  
_Longer,_ Wes signs, his lip curled in distaste, _assistant manager but not paid like it._  
  
_I can’t imagine Discount Tire offers much in the way of a good salary._  
  
Wes peers at Numbers, like he’s trying to determine if he’s being mocked or not, and Numbers merely peers back.  
  
Because he finds Wes interesting, because he knows Wes finds him interesting too, and there are many things that might come out of that between now and morning when he can get the hell out of here.  
  
_Not a lot of opportunities here_ is what Wes eventually signs.  
  
Not a lot of opportunities for most people, but especially for Wes, who likely had difficulties in school. Numbers can see how his life might have played out from elementary through high school and why he, specifically, would be given fewer opportunities than others.  
  
Not because of a language barrier, but because he looks like a hulking, angry cowboy and cowboys don’t belong in the frozen north of Minnesota.  
  
_The world is a lot bigger than Minnesota._ _  
_ _  
_ _I know North Dakota exists._  
  
Numbers laughs. _What keeps you here?_ _  
_ _  
_ _Eleven dollars an hour and no savings. Not as easy to break free as you think it is._ _  
_ _  
_ _I don’t think it’s easy. I just know it can be done._ _  
_ _  
_ _Are you going to try and sell me something?_  
  
Numbers smiles. _No. Maybe you can try and sell me on where I might find decent food and a decent motel._  
  
Wes shrugs. _Depends on what you think is decent. There’s not even a library here._  
  
_Every town should have a library._  
  
_Lunch is in twenty. You’ll be here for a few more hours. Could show you a decent place to eat while you wait._  
  
_As long as it’s not Burger King._  
  
Wes frowns. _Burger Kings are bad luck when it’s snowing._  
  
Numbers raises his eyebrows before he sighs. It might make him laugh, but he only shakes his head.  
  
_I’m not superstitious. What do you do for good luck when it’s snowing?_ _  
_ _  
_ _Ice fish._  
  
Wes looks serious about it but Numbers laughs anyway and the smirk he gets in return tells him he’s got a good read on Wes. He usually has a good read on anyone, but this is a man who would not take it kindly if Numbers told him so.  
  
It makes him more interesting. The _tough-guy_ persona isn’t one Wes puts on - he’s shaped by it in some way and leans into the intimidation his stature naturally gives him all the more. Numbers doesn’t think there is a secret marshmallow hiding in the center of Wes, but something harder instead.  
  
Steel. And steel can be molded, if tempered properly.  
  
“Now I haven’t seen you have a decent conversation in years,” Jim says as he walks to Wes. “I’m sure Wes here has told you just how busy we are, sir.”  
  
“Yes, he’s made me aware that I should have made an appointment with the nail I ran over,” Numbers says with a short grin. “We’re becoming fast friends.”  
  
“It’s always good to have friends,” Jim says and pats Wes’ shoulder.  
  
Wes looks like he’d like to drive a nail through that hand but he merely signs _lunch_ and Jim frowns, looking at his watch.  
  
“Well, but you’re twelve minutes early,” he says and sighs when Wes stares at him, shoulders squared. “Fine then! They say it might just be like the Halloween blizzard this weekend, so don’t go staying out too late while it’s comin’ down the way it is.”  
  
Wes shakes his head and walks by Jim and Numbers stands. Everyone that has been watching them like they’ve been playing a game of tennis quickly turns back to their magazines or C-SPAN. Jim says something about Numbers’ car, but he ignores him and walks out into the snow with Wes.  
  
He walks into the open bays and when he comes back, he’s wearing a suede leather jacket with fringe and Numbers raises his eyebrows.  
  
Wes merely raises his eyebrows back.  
  
Maybe they both haven’t chosen the best attire for a snowstorm - though Numbers suspects Wes may be wearing long johns and he planned on being in a warm car, thanks - but the weather won’t last forever.  
  
They don’t speak to each other as they clamber into Wes’ absolute rust bucket, but the Buick Fargo gave him isn’t much better. They don’t speak for the five minutes it takes to get to a diner advertising breakfast all day and that looks busy for a potential blizzard.  
  
Though Numbers has learned that people don’t let things like potential blizzards stop them from being out and about, endangering themselves and everyone around them. He sees it every winter no matter where he goes.  
  
They don’t talk at all until they’re seated in the diner, warm and toasty enough for Numbers to pull his soft coat off. Wes is staring at him but that seems to be a thing he does, which Numbers finds endearing because he loves to stare at people for a variety of reasons.  
  
It also helps with the idea of molding steel, but he’ll wait a little while before broaching that subject.  
  
_Boundaries._  
  
Numbers raises his eyebrows and Wes gestures at him. He realizes his tattoo is visible, just a bit, and shrugs.  
  
_It’s healthy to set boundaries._  
  
Wes smiles but there’s something sharp and cold about it. Numbers finds that delightful.  
  
_You don’t seem the type to care about boundaries._ _  
_ _  
_ _You don’t know me._ _  
_ _  
_ _Don’t have to._  
  
Numbers smiles and looks at their waitress. They order coffee and large plates of breakfast and she’s just a little too chipper when she pats Wes’ shoulder and congratulates him on having made a new friend.  
  
It’s not that he looks like he wants to murder her for it, but there’s a grim sort of acceptance, like he’s used to being condescended to. And, well, Numbers has been condescended to just about every single time he steps into small towns like this. He can’t imagine living in one.  
  
He was born and bred in a big city and Wes has been stuck in Bemidji, Minnesota his entire life. Numbers might sympathize with most people that were - those that don’t condescend anyway - and pulls his cup of coffee closer after their waitress pours one and leaves the pot.  
  
_Why are you in town?_  
  
“Passing through,” Numbers says and shrugs when Wes grimaces. “If I had known Burger King was bad luck, I might not have tried to drive through its parking lot and over the biggest fucking nail I’ve ever seen.”  
  
Wes laughs and it’s genuine, probably the most genuine he’s looked, and Numbers grins.  
  
_I’m based out of Fargo but I travel._ _  
_ _  
_ _What do you do?_  
  
_Monitor operations for the company I work for throughout the midwest,_ Numbers signs and shrugs when Wes raises an eyebrow. _I sit behind the steering wheel of a car for most of my days._ _  
_ _  
_ _Why don’t you fly?_ _  
_ _  
_ _Flying is expensive, Wes._ _  
_ _  
_ _Wrench._ _  
_  
Numbers raises his eyebrows. “Wrench?”  
  
_I prefer Wrench._ _  
_ _  
_ _How fitting for you._ _  
_ _  
_ _It’s my last name._ _  
_  
“Wes Wrench,” Numbers says slowly and narrows his eyes. “It’s got a certain ring to it.”  
  
Wrench looks unimpressed. _Stanley Yelnats does too,_ he signs, _to anyone who hasn’t seen Holes._  
  
Numbers smiles. _It was a good movie,_ he signs and laughs when Wrench only looks more unimpressed and like he expects answers. Like he’s earned them in some way.  
  
He’s used to that working and Numbers checks it off his proverbial resume.  
  
_I go by Numbers._ _  
_ _  
_ _Numbers._  
  
“Numbers,” Numbers says dryly. “That’s my name.”  
  
_It’s not your real name._ _  
_ _  
_ _Sorry, I didn’t catch that, Mister Wrench._  
  
Wrench thins his lips and shakes his head. But he doesn’t ask anymore, though that might be because plates of eggs, hashbrowns, sausage, bacon and toast are set in front of them.  
  
It looks good, the way small diners in small towns have good breakfasts, and Numbers digs in because he’s frankly starving after not eating since eleven last night. They eat and don’t talk for a while, but Numbers feels Wrench looking at him now and then, expectation lingering in the air.  
  
Numbers takes a drink of coffee and picks up the last piece of toast, taking a bite and peering at Wrench.  
  
Wrench stares back and Numbers smiles because this is going to be easier than he expected. This part, anyway, the rest of it might be shit for a while, but it almost always is shit at the beginning when he takes on a new partner.  
  
_I could use an extra pair of hands for the continued successful operation of the company I work for. Might take us out of glorious Bemidji for a couple days._  
  
_What would it pay?_  
  
_Enough to make it worth your while._  
  
Wrench stares at him before he looks around the diner. He doesn’t look like he’s debating about taking the offered work; he looks like he’s debating leaving and never seeing this fucking diner or town ever again.  
  
Waiting for that opportunity, something that might just fall into his lap, maybe while thinking it would never actually happen.  
  
Numbers thinks of fates colliding and destinies intertwining. He doesn’t believe in any of that, but he does believe in being in the right place at the right time. Besides, there are no gods in his line of work, only the demons who roam the earth who choose one side or the other, depending on if they’re in on the joke.  
  
Odd things happen in the world. It’s a small one, after all, he hears that often in these northern towns, and there are probably a lot of Wes Wrenches out there, waiting for the Numbers of the world to stumble upon them.  
  
Still, Numbers thinks of fates colliding and destinies intertwining all the same.  
  
Wrench nods and Numbers grins.  
  
He does have to spend a few more hours in Discount fucking Tire before he’s got two brand new tires and the company of a potential partner. Wrench leaves work a little early, but the combined staring of him and Numbers gets Jim to stop complaining, and Numbers follows Wrench to his home.  
  
It’s an alright place, outdated in the way everything in Bemidji is, but it’s a home and Wrench doesn’t share it with anyone. Numbers looks around it and wonders what Wrench does when he’s not working. Does he spend his time here? Does he have friends, other family members?  
  
Would he be in the library every day if there was one?  
  
Numbers doesn’t think Wrench has any attachments here. He thinks that Wrench grew up in this home and it’s probably barely changed since his mother died, knickknacks and framed photos that don’t fit Wrench throughout the house.  
  
He’s merely existing and Numbers looks out of the back door at the snow falling heavy outside.  
  
Existing in Bemidji, Minnesota, better than the town and all the people in it combined, not leaving because he convinced himself he couldn’t. Fear, maybe, the fear of change that’s bred into these people, and Wrench is still a small-towner from the frozen north of Minnesota.  
  
Numbers asks for the phone and makes a call in the kitchen.  
  
“If I were looking to hold a working interview between Bemidji and Fargo, where would you suggest?” he asks, his back to Wrench, but he can feel his stare from the living room couch he’s sitting on.  
  
Numbers listens for a while before he grabs a notepad and pen nearby and scribbles on it. “Got it,” he says and squints. “Blown tire again. White-out conditions for at least the rest of the day and night. I’ll head out as soon as I can for the interview.” He listens to the powers that be in Fargo and shakes his head. “Just a few days delayed. Yeah, got it.”  
  
He hangs the phone up and looks at the address and description of a man scrawled on the post-it in his hand. He stuffs it in his pocket and walks into the living room, looking at Wrench.  
  
It’s comical how large he looks on the dingy little couch, taking up too much space, but he doesn’t look any softer for it.  
  
Not that much, anyway.  
  
_Detroit Lakes when the storm lets up._  
  
Wrench nods. _Smaller population than here._  
  
_You would be surprised,_ Numbers signs and sits down, _how much of my work takes place in small towns._  
  
_If you were raised in a small town, you would know it’s not surprising at all._  
  
Numbers raises his eyebrows before he laughs and shrugs. “Fair enough,” he says. “I sincerely hope you can do some heavy lifting.”  
  
_I throw tires around all day._ _  
_ _  
_ _Tires don’t complain about it._  
  
Wrench smirks a little. _Do you?_  
  
“Complain when I get thrown around?” Numbers asks and chuckles when Wrench nods. “Depends on who’s doing it.”  
  
_You look like a complainer all around._  
  
Numbers frowns. _That’s not nice._ _  
_ _  
_ _Do you want me to be nice?_  
  
_Everyone likes to be treated well._  
  
_Sometimes being treated well doesn’t have anything to do with being nice._  
  
Numbers hums consideringly. _You make an excellent point._  
  
Wrench smiles as he watches Numbers and there’s nothing nice about it. There’s the same sharpness in it from the diner, but it’s not exactly cold anymore. It burns now and Numbers does have the thought that, depending on how this all goes, this might be the thing that will leave him without a partner yet again.  
  
But it might not. It might be worth it.  
  
It might be the reason why he keeps a partner in the long run.  
  
Tempering steel, Numbers thinks again, and if he does it correctly, he can end up with precisely the sort of sharp, cold, and loyal partner he’s been looking for.  
  
He’s in control this time, it’s his own choice and his own work that’ll determine it, and Numbers wonders how Wrench might take to being tempered, to being molded.  
  
Wrench is pliable under Numbers’ hands and it’s not because he thinks he should be or that it makes it easier, more pleasurable. He’s pliable because he wants to be and because that’s his own choice, his own control, too. He goes where Numbers leads but there’s nothing nice about it here either, only the expectation to be treated well and offer the same in return.  
  
Yes, he’s pliable under Numbers’ hands, but Numbers lets himself be pliable under Wrench’s too. He wouldn’t, usually. He _doesn’t_ any other time, but being partners requires complete trust and loyalty, requires surrendering to the fact that you have to rely on someone else now and then.  
  
For Numbers, it can be the difference between living another day or never seeing another sunrise.  
  
For both of them, here, now, it means creation. It means laying down a foundation that they will build upon, slowly during downtime and much more quickly during jobs, and Numbers wonders how it’ll hold up.  
  
How it’ll withstand the occasional storm, the occasional bullet that tears through soft flesh, whether through their work or between themselves.  
  
Here, though, in this room darkened by heavy snowfall and heavier air between them, there are no cracks when the foundation settles.  
  
——  
  
Detroit Lakes is nicer than Bemidji.  
  
It’s smaller but busier, fresh, powdery snow and winter activities keep it a popular place to come and enjoy the cold.  
  
Some parts of it might be considered picturesque but Numbers doesn’t notice those parts. He’s busy figuring out the best place to be neither seen nor heard and he eventually finds it just outside of town.  
  
The highway is nearly empty here and the trees surrounding it are either bare or pines heavy with snow on their branches, and it’s good enough for this. He finds a place to drive toward the edge of the lake not visible to the highway and gets out with Wrench, who can do a lot of heavy lifting, which means Numbers won’t always have to and that’s just fine by him.  
  
The lake is frozen, thick ice over freezing water, and Numbers sits on the edge of the trunk as Wrench drills a hole into the ice. He looks out over the landscape, cold and empty and lifeless, really, and it’s something Numbers is used to seeing, but there’s something better about it today.  
  
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m starting to like it here. Maybe I won’t mind coming back to Minnesota,” Numbers says and shrugs, looking at the man inside of the trunk.  
  
He’s staring at Numbers, that familiar and desperate plea in his eyes, and he mumbles something against the gag stuffed in his mouth. Numbers has already heard from him, nothing impressive, but he pulls the cloth gag out of his mouth again.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“Why? Why, please, why?”  
  
Numbers shakes his head. “I’m training a new partner,” he says. “Nothing personal.”  
  
_“What?”_ the man asks feebly.  
  
Numbers puts the gag back in his mouth. “Training a new partner,” he says slowly and clearly. “I like this one. I have a good feeling about him. You know, people talk about fates colliding and all that, which has always been bullshit to me, but who the fuck expects to find a partner in Bemidji, Minnesota?”  
  
The drill turns off and Numbers looks up when Wrench walks to the back of the car. His cheeks and nose are red, pale skin and all, and he gestures at the man in the trunk. Numbers nods and helps him drag him out and across the ice.  
  
It’s easy to dispose of him and Numbers brushes his gloves together and peers around, but there’s no life out here.  
  
Just them and the one that’s being snuffed out below their feet.  
  
Numbers looks at Wrench, who is squinting in the bright sunlight, a smirk on his face.  
  
“What?” Numbers asks dryly. “You want a pat on the back?”  
  
Wrench rolls his eyes. _This is the happiest you’ve looked in four days._  
  
Numbers shrugs and gestures around. _Hell of a view, isn’t it?_  
  
_It is,_ Wrench signs.  
  
He’s not looking at the landscape and there’s something fond about the way he’s smiling.  
  
Numbers might take offense to it, might not tolerate _familiarity_ or any sort of fondness so soon, but he also isn’t regularly fucking and being fucked by a partner he met four days ago. A partner who has never done any of this before but simply looked to Numbers for direction and followed it without question.  
  
A partner that is smiling at him, fond and amused and slightly mocking all at once, and Numbers finds that he doesn’t mind.  
  
Finds that he likes it, in fact.  
  
“Alright, alright,” he still says and waves his hand. “Come on. We’re not far from home.”  
  
_You going to help me lift this?_ Wrench signs and gestures at the drill.  
  
_I think you’ve got it,_ Numbers signs back and grins when Wrench shakes his head.  
  
Numbers walks back to the car and gets in, starting it so the coils might get hot within the next twenty minutes. The trunk closes and Wrench slides into the seat next to him. Numbers pulls his gloves off and looks at him.  
  
_You did well._ _  
_ _  
_ _Easier than I expected._ _  
_ _  
_ _Want to do it again?_  
  
Wrench nods and adjusts the collar of Numbers’ new coat. Better for the cold, Wrench had dryly told him, and Numbers won’t admit he was right. He’s going to have to get used to this sort of touchy-feely thing Wrench has going on and he can only handle so many uncomfortable things at once.  
  
But Wrench is easily pliable, able to be molded and made into what Numbers wants and needs him to be. And it’s Wrench’s choice to be that way for him.  
  
It seems only fair to choose to be that way for Wes Wrench too.

**Author's Note:**

> Please be kind, this is my first time posting Wrenchers! I've loved them since s1 aired (and s1 is still the best television I've ever watched) and tried to write for them before but this one finally grabbed hold of me. I'm in between fandoms right now and haven't read fic in forever, but I've always wanted to get at least one Wrenchers fic posted.
> 
> I don't know if I'll write more for them, but I hope you enjoyed it, at least a little! Thanks for reading.
> 
> Thanks and much love, as always, to Erin and Momma. <3 And if you're here from gradence or bagginshield, thank you and I love you.


End file.
